watches as the lightweight aluminium safety bars slowly bend apart beneath his weight. Mr Clarke, senior supervisor, thirty years of faithful service in the private finance sector, is sucked into the grating, exploding as he hits the first of the fans. The supervisor’s remains hurtle around and up the ventilation shaft to his final destination.
The last of Clarke comes out of the steel rooftop chimney in a spectacular crimson fountain.
Miranda and Meera see Clarke’s minced innards rain down on the outside of the building. As the pulverised remains fall, something shiny and metallic passes them and bounces onto the roof of the atrium below.
‘Jesus,’ Miranda exclaims, ‘the key!’ She and Meera rush back to the stairwell. ‘There must be a service door onto the atrium roof.’
Ben is hanging onto the rising, still-tipped cradle. He looks up. If he doesn’t stop it, he’ll hit the top at incredible speed. He looks for the controls but finds only bare wires. It would appear that Clarke took the hand control panel with him when he fell. Ben can do nothing but wait to be flung from the cradle in the final crash.
Unless.
He sees, coming up, the broken window from which Clarke emerged. He is ascending at an incredible speed. He’ll have just one shot.
The gaping hole shoots past his feet. Ben lets go of the side of the tipped cradle and slides in through the window, just as he passes it.
16. FRIDAY 4:05PM
Meera and Miranda find Ben lying in the stairwell on the twenty eighth floor. It takes a minute to get him awake, but they succeed in pulling him to his feet.
‘We have to shut the systems down,’ he says.
‘Wait,’ says Miranda. ‘That means shutting everything down. Power. Lights. Air. The place will be sealed tight. You want to turn it into a big steel coffin full of raving maniacs?’
Meera shrugs. ‘It works for me.’
They head back to the top floor and room 3014. Miranda opens the master control panel and looks around for some way of disarming it. ‘This needs the female touch,’ she warns, smashing a steel chair into the system, which makes no difference at all. Meera stops her and follows the cabling to a DANGER: LIVE VOLTAGE box. She unclips the lid, overrides the protector panel and removes a water cooler tank, emptying the whole lot into the mains.
There are several small explosions and a lot of sparks, but the air system reroutes again and remains on, its gauges moving even further into overcompensation. Throughout the building, floor by floor, the lights go out and the windows darken.
Miranda stands up and brushes herself down. ‘Nice one,’ she says, sarcastically. ‘Terrific. This top was brand new. We can’t stop it. Now what do we do?’
‘Get the key back. Get the hell out.’
Meera heads off after the key.
17. FRIDAY 4:17PM
The directors watch as the mainframe diverts itself to keep running. They are panicked and still trying not to inhale the atmosphere, although it’s hopeless pretending you won’t breathe. ‘There must be some way to turn the damned air off,’ Dr Samphire insists.
‘Ultimately, it’s designed to reroute itself to an outside power supply if there’s a crisis. It can’t be turned off.’ This from the same smartarse director who was rude to him before. When this is over …
‘What you’re telling me is we’re fucked. That boy. He knew what was wrong. You have to find him.’
The other director looks disgusted. What happened to ‘we’? he wonders.
The work-floor is a very different place now. The air is as thick and as murky as the bottom of a pond. The windows have automatically darkened, screening out the light. In the hazy beam of Miranda’s torch, lunatics flit past in various states of undress. The building is a heathen hell, where small fires burn on desks. The few remaining computers are smashed in. Some of the sprinklers are on. There are moans and screams in the dark. Bedlam was an oasis of sanity by comparison.
Ben is still
The last of Clarke comes out of the steel rooftop chimney in a spectacular crimson fountain.
Miranda and Meera see Clarke’s minced innards rain down on the outside of the building. As the pulverised remains fall, something shiny and metallic passes them and bounces onto the roof of the atrium below.
‘Jesus,’ Miranda exclaims, ‘the key!’ She and Meera rush back to the stairwell. ‘There must be a service door onto the atrium roof.’
Ben is hanging onto the rising, still-tipped cradle. He looks up. If he doesn’t stop it, he’ll hit the top at incredible speed. He looks for the controls but finds only bare wires. It would appear that Clarke took the hand control panel with him when he fell. Ben can do nothing but wait to be flung from the cradle in the final crash.
Unless.
He sees, coming up, the broken window from which Clarke emerged. He is ascending at an incredible speed. He’ll have just one shot.
The gaping hole shoots past his feet. Ben lets go of the side of the tipped cradle and slides in through the window, just as he passes it.
16. FRIDAY 4:05PM
Meera and Miranda find Ben lying in the stairwell on the twenty eighth floor. It takes a minute to get him awake, but they succeed in pulling him to his feet.
‘We have to shut the systems down,’ he says.
‘Wait,’ says Miranda. ‘That means shutting everything down. Power. Lights. Air. The place will be sealed tight. You want to turn it into a big steel coffin full of raving maniacs?’
Meera shrugs. ‘It works for me.’
They head back to the top floor and room 3014. Miranda opens the master control panel and looks around for some way of disarming it. ‘This needs the female touch,’ she warns, smashing a steel chair into the system, which makes no difference at all. Meera stops her and follows the cabling to a DANGER: LIVE VOLTAGE box. She unclips the lid, overrides the protector panel and removes a water cooler tank, emptying the whole lot into the mains.
There are several small explosions and a lot of sparks, but the air system reroutes again and remains on, its gauges moving even further into overcompensation. Throughout the building, floor by floor, the lights go out and the windows darken.
Miranda stands up and brushes herself down. ‘Nice one,’ she says, sarcastically. ‘Terrific. This top was brand new. We can’t stop it. Now what do we do?’
‘Get the key back. Get the hell out.’
Meera heads off after the key.
17. FRIDAY 4:17PM
The directors watch as the mainframe diverts itself to keep running. They are panicked and still trying not to inhale the atmosphere, although it’s hopeless pretending you won’t breathe. ‘There must be some way to turn the damned air off,’ Dr Samphire insists.
‘Ultimately, it’s designed to reroute itself to an outside power supply if there’s a crisis. It can’t be turned off.’ This from the same smartarse director who was rude to him before. When this is over …
‘What you’re telling me is we’re fucked. That boy. He knew what was wrong. You have to find him.’
The other director looks disgusted. What happened to ‘we’? he wonders.
The work-floor is a very different place now. The air is as thick and as murky as the bottom of a pond. The windows have automatically darkened, screening out the light. In the hazy beam of Miranda’s torch, lunatics flit past in various states of undress. The building is a heathen hell, where small fires burn on desks. The few remaining computers are smashed in. Some of the sprinklers are on. There are moans and screams in the dark. Bedlam was an oasis of sanity by comparison.
Ben is still
Similar Books
